A Wee Guest Poem: Shug Mcmillan

Interpretations of
the Picts at Anwoth
by
Shug Mcmillan


In the saucer of hills
above the Fleet, broom is
everywhere like waves.
By scorched stumps of gate,

circles and mazes dug
in stone like maps of the soul.
Look here, a crystal ball,
and there, a tree to hug.

Where did they come from,
these men in Mohican cuts
with their secrets of Reiki?

Where did they go to,
these men in black ships,
with their flames and butchery?